


Intervention

by geekmama



Series: Honorable Intentions [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, F/M, Fluff, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Molly Problem: Some methods of research simply are superior to others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Months" prompt. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *********************************

“Molly! Over here!” Mary called, standing up from her chair at the outdoor cafe table where she’d been waiting. She waved and Molly returned it with a smile, hurrying across the square. Mary watched her approach with real pleasure. It’d been ages (well, a couple of months), and Sherlock’s intended was looking perfectly adorable in what was obviously a new turnout: slim jeans (in a pretty deep blue flowered pattern -- this _was_ Molly Hooper), a lighter blue knit tunic jumper, and matching ballet flats and tiny crossbody bag. “That is a great look on you!” Mary said as her friend approached.

“Thanks! Sherlock likes it, too. I’ve been updating my wardrobe a bit.”

As they embraced briefly, Mary warned, “You’re going to spoil that man. Best be careful about that.”

“He’s the one doing the spoiling,” Molly replied as they took their seats. “When he gets the chance, at least. You know how it’s been.”

Mary gave a slight wince. “All those private cases they’ve been taking. They pay so much that John doesn’t feel he can pass them up, even if it keeps him away more than he’d like. Than _I’d_ like. And nothing above a four or five. I’m surprised Sherlock hasn’t perished of boredom!”

“Well, it’s partly to pay for the wedding, and I do agree it would be ridiculous to burden our parents with any of the cost when we’ve been independent adults for years. But when I look at the balance in our account… we could pay for it twice over!”

Mary nodded. “Gracie’s got a nicely padded school fund building, and I must say it’s nice to be able to afford to have a housekeeper several times a week. _But_...”

“Yes, _but_ …” Molly agreed, lightly, but there was a distinctly wistful tone there, too. However, she smiled and asked, “How is Gracie? She must be getting so big! I haven’t seen her since her birthday party.”

“She’s toddling about and getting into everything. It’s as well for her she’s cute as she can stare. And at least she’s sleeping more now.”

Molly looked envious. “If you need us to watch her some evening….”

Mary chuckled. “Are you sure you should be speaking for Sherlock?”

“He _loves_ Gracie! You saw how good he was with her at the party.”

“I did. I believe he thinks of her as an interesting object of research. No baby talk, but I can’t fault the focused attention he paid her.”

“He was very sweet with her!”

“So he was,” Mary admitted, remembering the sight of the Consulting Detective carrying her small daughter about, his deep voice murmuring an educational description of the Watson Environment and commending her behavior _in such demanding  yet tedious circumstances._  “He’ll make a good dad when the time comes.”

Molly flushed faintly, and her smile seemed a trifle forced, Mary thought.

Mary cocked her head.  She said, “Soooo...wedding plans going well?”

Molly brightened. “We were trying to keep the guest list to a reasonable number, but it seems impossible. I had no idea Sherlock’s extended family was so… _extended_ . There are even some cousins coming over from the continent, Germany _and_ France! He’s not happy about it, but what can we do?”

“Elope?” said Mary, wrinkling her nose.

“He suggested that at one point, and I think he’d insist on it if he didn’t believe his mother would be devastated. He loves her dearly, and in the past… well, he wasn’t the easiest child.”

Mary gave a snort. “Or man. By this time she probably qualifies for sainthood! But I’m amazed he’s perceptive enough to realize she _deserves_ a wedding.”

Molly nodded. “ _I_ think she does, too. She’s so excited! And my mother is very pleased, of course. There will be a decent number of Hoopers in attendance. But when I think of the total, the crowd we’re going to have… it’s just not at all what I’m used to. What _we’re_ used to! Originally I was hoping it would be more like your wedding. Beautiful, and just the right size.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Mary agreed, thinking back. The wedding, the honeymoon, the first month… before Magnussun’s casual, devastating communication -- and Mary’s own trust issues -- brought it all tumbling down. Or nearly did. It had been horrible to live through, but she now believed it was thanks to Sherlock that she and John were still together, with more happiness, and more _honesty_ between them than she’d ever hoped to enjoy with another human being.  

And now Sherlock, that singular, maddening, _heroic_ man,  was marrying, too -- marrying this darling creature who’d been hopelessly in love with him for years. Well, Molly was hopeless no longer, and they must be happy. They _must!_

Mary summoned a teasing gleam. “But how is it otherwise? Are the nights _sizzling_ at 221B -- when he’s at home?”

Molly gave a chuckle that was meant to be casual, but was in reality merely uncomfortable, and Mary detected a slight deer-in-the-headlights look about her.

But before either of them could say anything more, the waiter stepped up to take their order, and by the time he’d departed Molly had regained her composure.

“I haven’t been staying in Baker Street,” Molly said, lightly. “We’ve both been so busy with work. And with the wedding. He stays at my flat when he can -- when he’s in town and I’m not on a late shift. But with work....”

“--and the wedding,” Mary supplied. “Then I take it he’s not shagging you into the mattress five nights out of seven.”

Molly choked a bit at this blunt appraisal. “Um… No. We… he…. ”

Mary pursed her lips. “Molly! Don’t tell me the Holmes boys really _are_ the Iceman and the Virgin?”

Molly burst out laughing, genuinely amused. “Where did _that_ come from?”

“Irene Adler, according to John.”

Molly huffed a bit at that name. “Well, she was wrong. It’s just… been a while. We’re taking things… er… slowly.”

Mary stared, brows raised.

Molly immediately came to Sherlock’s defense. “It’s not a problem! We’ve agreed… when the moment’s right...”

“Say, the wedding night?” Mary suggested.

“Well… maybe.”

Mary eyed her, with concern, sympathy, and some amusement. “Molly, you do realize that’s still over four months away.”

“ _I know that!_ ” Molly snapped. Then, disconsolately, “I know that.”

 

**-o-o-o-**

 

MW: Oi! Come to the house ASAP. Need you.

 

Sherlock stared at the text. The “Oi!” Seemed to preclude anything too serious, yet Mary rarely sent texts, and never (in his experience) frivolous ones. He was loath to ignore the summons.

He texted back.

 

SH: Issue?

MW: The Molly Problem

 

His eyebrows shot up at this, and he felt very odd, a chill about his heart.

 

SH: Elaborate.

MW: At the house. See you soon.

 

Sherlock scowled. He knew John wasn’t there, he’d sent him out of town to research another of the unconscionably dull (but lucrative) cases they’d been taking in the effort to try to build a little nest egg (and pay for The Damned Wedding), and Molly wouldn’t be off work until nine. He cursed, and, much against his usual inclination, tried to phone Mary, but she didn’t pick up. Extremely annoyed that there seemed to be nothing for it, he put on his scarf and Belstaff, turning up the collar as usual in spite of the mild spring day, and went to hail a cab.

Half an hour later, Mary opened the door to him, smiling, but with a glint in her eye that was both teasing and sympathetic.

“What _Molly Problem_?” he demanded in icy accents.

But she only replied, mildly, “Come in the kitchen. I’ve made tea for us,” and turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock to show himself in and shut the door.

She was pouring out at their small kitchen table when he stalked in. “Where’s Grace?” he asked.

“Diana -- our housekeeper -- is taking her to the park and then the market, so we’ve plenty of time. Sit down.”

He registered a feeling of disappointment at the absence of the baby -- she was a fascinating little creature -- but shoved that aside and said, suspiciously, “Time for what, precisely?” Reluctantly he sat down and accepted a cup of tea.

“Time to talk,” she said, taking the chair opposite his and taking a sip from her own cup. “Ah, that’s good.”

Sherlock ground his teeth slightly. “Mary…”

“Sherlock.” She set the cup down and faced him squarely, a half smile on her lips but a serious look in her .eye. “I love you and Molly dearly.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

She went on, “I owe you a great deal--”

“You do,” he agreed, grimly.

“--and I am determined to promote your happiness. With that in mind, I would like you to answer one thing: What are you playing at?”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve seen you with Molly far too many times not to know you love her and, in spite of your being the brilliant and eccentric Sherlock Holmes, you want her in every way a man wants a women. So again: _what are you playing at?_ ”

Sherlock, conscious of a fiery spot growing on either cheek, said icily, “This is none of your business.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” she replied evenly, to his surprise. “And I wouldn’t be saying anything except that she’s so plainly unhappy with the situation.”

Sherlock gaped. “She told you that?”

“Oh, no. She didn’t say much at all, and would likely be furious that I’m talking to you about it. No, I deduced it.”

Sherlock’s gape began to fade to consternation and embarrassment. Only Mycroft rivaled Mary at deducing people -- and Mary really had the advantage in that she actually saw them as _people_ ,

Mary raised a brow, not smiling at all now.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “We… we’re taking it slowly--”

“She told me that. And that it had been a while. _Have_ you made love to her in the past?”

Sherlock became aware that he was gaping again. He closed his mouth and shifted in his chair, sitting up very straight. “We… after I… died…”

Mary nodded. “You stayed at her flat?”

“Just the one night. Mycroft had everything arranged for my departure the following morning. But I wouldn’t call it… it was more about me… as it always had been. I had a number… quite a number of… _encounters._ At university.”

“Which you entered at sixteen.”

“Yes.” Sherlock, almost perforce, thought back to the boy he’d been. His intelligence and fire to know everything did not save him from the social jungle of university life, and he’d been easy prey for “the wrong crowd”, high-strung, naive, and… and _pretty_ as he’d been. It was all so very sordid, and he rarely allowed himself to think of it.  He said to Mary stiffly, “But all that is beside the point. I want to do things correctly this time. _Better_. I’m… I’m researching the question.”

To his chagrin, Mary gave a crow of laughter. “I _knew_ it!” Then seeing his expression, she went on, “Oh, don’t be stroppy. It’s just like you, to make something so beautifully simple more complicated than it needs to be.”

Sherlock said, angrily, “If it’s so simple, why is three-quarters of the world’s literature and art devoted to sly references to its every aspect. Not to mention the idiotic magazines and tabloids, and the pornography that’s like a plague of locusts all over the internet?”

Mary was still grinning. “Research not going as well as you’d have liked, eh?”

“No,” Sherlock said, morosely. He had to admit, he too had been growing somewhat dissatisfied with the situation of late. He glared at Mary who, from her expression, could obviously read every thought in his head. “So do you have any useful suggestions?”

“As a matter of fact…” she said, rising from her chair. She went over to the small secretary in the corner of the room that she and John used to store bills and other paperwork, opened the front and took out a pad of paper and a pen. She brought them over to Sherlock and handed them to him, sitting down again. “A short bibliography and lecture should get you started. You should take notes.”

She had obviously been thinking about this for a while. She at once began to rattle off a list of published resources and their particular merits and foci, her voice oddly but soothingly pedantic. Sherlock grabbed up the pen and paper and began to write quickly.

When he’d covered half a sheet, she stopped. He looked up, and grimaced at the twinkle in her eye. “And now,” she said, “the lecture portion of our program: the appropriate care and handling of women. Again, take good notes.”

When he was a slightly spotty, skinny thirteen year old, Sherlock's father had ushered him into the privacy of the family library and had sat him down for “the talk”, an excruciatingly embarrassing interlude of which he’d failed to delete any portion in the years since, such was the trauma of the event. This lecture of Mary’s was nothing like that.

_Nothing._

 

**-o-o-o-**

 

“Come in! Come in!” exclaimed John, happily. “God, it’s been ages since you were over to dinner. Molly you look _ravishing!_ ”

And she did, Mary thought. Molly was dressed in a summery dress (in a flowered pattern, of course) held up only by thin straps at her shoulders. Pretty sandals with a kitten heel and a lace knit shawl against the cool of the evening air completed her ensemble. Her long, pale auburn hair flowed down her back, secured by  a couple of pretty clips above her temples.

But more than these externals was her relaxed yet glowing happiness. _Like a cat in cream_ , Mary thought with a thrill of satisfaction as she embraced her, murmuring a greeting.

At the same time, Mary glanced up at Sherlock, who was speaking to John. The Consulting Detective, _sans_ Belstaff but wearing his usual impeccably tailored suit and a white dress shirt that must have cost close to three hundred quid, looked more devastatingly handsome than usual, if such a thing were possible, and Mary was certain she could detect a corresponding glow about him, as well. Then his eyes met hers for a brief moment, and a crooked smile touched his lips.

_Oh. My. God!_

They didn’t have a chance to talk privately at all until dinner was well over and John was engrossed in a detailed discussion of gunshot wounds with Molly. This might have seemed singularly impolitic, but it had actually come up in relation to a lurid triple murder that had come to light only the day before. Sherlock and John had been called in, but the case had taken no more than a few hours to solve. The subject now, however, struck a little too close to home for both Mary and Sherlock. Mary retreated to the kitchen first with the excuse that Diana had the night off and she should start the dishes, at least, and Sherlock followed some two minutes later, carrying a stack of plates.

“Thank you.” Mary smiled, over her shoulder, as he put them down within her reach.

He picked up a dish towel, prepared to dry as she washed. But he said, quietly, “It’s I who should be thanking you, of course.”

She stopped washing and looked up at him. The expression on his face was priceless, an odd mixture of shyness and pride that made him look so boyish.… Her heart filled with love of him and, without thinking, she turned to him and embraced him.

He returned the hug, obligingly, but also said, “Mary, you’re getting suds and wet all over my suit!”

She chuckled, releasing him. “Oh dear! How awful! We can’t have that, can we?”

“Certainly it’s hardly commensurate with my dignity as the great Consulting Detective,” he said, with facetious hauteur.

More laughter. And then she asked him, “It’s all good, then, you and Molly?”

“Indeed it is,” he confirmed. “It’s all _very_ good.”

 

~,~

 


End file.
